


The Stone

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Steve needs so much love and so many hugs, Uncle Steve leans on his family, post 10x07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:13:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22396105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: A few months after her death, Steve visits his mother's grave. Despite his intentions, he does not go alone.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 127





	The Stone

A few months after the funeral and he’s mostly human again. Mostly.

Which is, of course, when he gets a call that the headstone is ready.

Funny how the timing works.

There’s the usual offer of a small dedication ceremony, but Steve just tells them to install it whenever, and he’ll come when he can. He’s tired of ceremonies. And Mary’s made it clear that she’s not having Joanie miss more school so soon after the funeral.

So: alone.

That’s the original plan, anyway. He doesn’t actually _mean_ to invite Danny, but it just comes out at one point, and Danny asks when, and that’s the end of it.

So: alone (with Danny). He’ll go and see his mom’s headstone.

They plan for Saturday; not that weekends mean the same to them that they do to other professions, but Steve needs a few days to ready himself anyway. And hopefully they’ll have the rest of that day free. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, that he’ll finally start sleeping better once it’s done. But just in case, he plans to spend the rest of Saturday napping, or drinking, or both. Probably with Danny.

Or not.

The second that Danny slips into his office, Steve registers the look on his face. Hesitant, apologetic. Not meeting his eyes as he speaks.

“So, uh, Saturday. I’m gonna have the kids after all. So, um.”

God help him, Steve honestly thinks Danny’s going to cancel on him. He honestly does. He’s so sure that he’s already squaring his shoulders, steadying his breath.

But instead Danny tilts his head and says, “I didn’t mention it on purpose, but I mentioned it. And the kids, they wanna come. I said I’d ask.”

Oh.

“They wanna come?”

“If you’re not up for that, just say the word. Grace can stay home with Charlie, no problem.”

“Why do they wanna come, though?” It’s an honest question, but the sudden sadness on Danny’s face gives him pause. “What?”

“They wanna come because they love you, you goof. You’re family. You don’t know that by now?”

Steve shakes his head—not to say no, just because his head wants shaking.

“They know what it is, right? That it’s not— that it won’t be, like—”

“They know what it is. I mean, I dunno if Charlie completely understands that it’s not the same as a funeral, but I don’t think that matters. They know it’s not for fun—hey. _Steve_.” Danny’s voice is soft now, like it hardly ever is. “If you want it to just be us, that’s fine.”

“No. No. It just—”

“I know.” Danny smiles. “I know. So you’re okay with it?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Steve smiles.

And so: alone (with Danny, and the kids).

Eventually it’s Saturday. And as much as Steve wants this over with, part of him also doesn’t want to go near it; it’s this part that stares at his phone from the moment he wakes, willing it to ring and call him in.

It doesn’t. So he showers, and shaves, and gets a suit on; then takes the jacket off, then the tie. Then the dress shoes. Then the dress pants. When Danny rings the doorbell, Steve’s got on a nice grey shirt with black cargo pants and sneakers.

But Danny says nothing. Just ushers him down to the car, where Grace and Charlie are already in the backseat, and hands over the keys.

It’s a short drive to the cemetery. Soon Steve’s parking the Camaro on the side of the little one-way street that winds through the rows of graves. They shuffle out. Steve gets a proper look at the Williamses for the first time, and sees that Grace is wearing a modest blue sundress, and Danny and Charlie are both in dress slacks and white button-downs.

Steve tugs at his own clothes. The shirt feels tight; the sneakers feel loose. The pants just feel—wrong.

“You know where we’re goin’?”

Steve nods, and forces a smile; he leads them in the right direction, keeping his attention on Danny’s gentle hovering, and on the way that Grace and Charlie are holding hands.

He can do this. God, he’s said goodbye to his mother half a dozen times by now.

What’s one more?

Before long, they reach the headstone.

Steve stands before it, considers it closely: there’s his mother’s name and, on the sides of it, like wings, the years she was born and died. In the center, there’s a cluster of flowers.

The original set of dates has been covered over like a bad tattoo.

He considers it closely; tries to understand it. He should be able to. There’s nothing foreign; no strange symbols, no text in other languages.

But, somehow? It confuses the hell out of him.

Steve shakes himself, fights towards the surface until he’s once again aware of his surroundings. It’s quiet in the cemetery. Danny and Grace stand at his sides, like buildings intent on sheltering him from the non-existent wind. They’re keeping him safe. He blows out a slow breath, and lets a couple of tears overflow their confines.

Danny says nothing. Grace says nothing.

Then there’s a tug at his hand, and Steve looks down to find Charlie proffering a crumpled-up tissue. It’s been wadded up into a little ball, but doesn’t look like it’s ever gotten wet— not that Steve would have the heart to reject it in any case.

“Did you bring me a tissue, Charlie?”

Charlie nods, with such sincerity that fresh tears well up and spill over; Steve takes the tissue, and gives a weak smile in return. “Thanks, buddy. I needed one.”

“Danno says even grown-ups can cry when they’re sad. And I thought probably you’d be sad today.”

“You and Danno, you’re smart guys.” Steve blots his eyes and nose, then stows the tissue in his pocket. “I’m really sad today. But I feel a lot better because you and your dad and Gracie are here.”

Charlie nods. Then he hides his face against Steve’s hip, and Steve’s not sure if he’s comforting or asking for comfort, but regardless, he threads his fingers into Charlie’s hair.

For a long moment, they all just stand. They’ll wait for his cue, Steve knows; content in that knowledge, for once he doesn’t push himself.

Eventually Charlie pulls away, and sways on his feet like little kids do. “Uncle Steve?”

“What’s up, Charlie?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

And all right, he’s not really in the mood to answer questions about mortality or the human condition or anything, but he’s not about to say no to his amazing nephew, who sacrificed a carefree Saturday to visit a graveyard and supply tissues.

Still Steve’s not prepared for the question that follows.

“Where’s your daddy?”

Beside him, he hears Danny sigh; but he doesn’t scold. It’s an innocent question, however much it hurts.

“My daddy’s in heaven,” Steve replies, not looking down. “With my mom.”

“He died?”

“Yeah. He died before you were born. But he would have loved you.”

“Oh.” And at the sound of the boy’s voice, Steve finally looks down.

It’s not the first time he’s seen tears in Charlie’s pale eyes. But these aren’t tears of fear or pain, or even a temper tantrum; all that’s bad enough, but it’s nothing compared to this.

Charlie’s sad. For him.

“Oh, hey, hey,” Steve murmurs. “You okay, buddy?”

Charlie shakes his head, reaching up blindly until Steve scoops him up and settles him on one hip. Then he wraps his arms around Steve’s neck and hides against his shoulder.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Steve whispers, though it isn’t. It _isn’t_. And Charlie weeps, the sobs too big for his little body, and Steve’s not sure he’s ever felt so wretched before in his life. What had he been thinking? How goddamn selfish can he be, bringing kids to a cemetery, for no reason other than him being less lonely? This is fucking traumatizing. Charlie’s been through so fucking much already—and now this—?

Wordlessly, he glances around. Seeking help; maybe seeking forgiveness. Danny and Grace lay warm hands on his shoulders, as Steve cuddles Charlie tighter to his chest and meets Danny’s eyes.

 _I shouldn’t have_ , he mouths. _I’m so sorry_.

Danny shushes him noiselessly, tightens the grip he has on Steve’s upper arm.

Grace’s thumb smooths over his shoulder. Charlie’s weight is warm and solid, centered at his hip, but borne against his chest.

Steve gasps, through closed teeth. The air stutters on the way down, and for the first time he realizes that he’s crying just as hard as the seven-year-old in his arms.

Grace tries to take Charlie, then. But Steve, instinctively, tightens his grip, and Charlie does the same, so Grace just laughs and puts her arms around both of them instead.

Steve gulps for air, and Danny hugs them both from the opposite side.

And then, for a little while longer, they just stand again. But not as four, this time; as one.

Eventually the tears peter out. Danny’s the first to move; to pull away and muster up their collective nerve. Following suit, Steve and Charlie pull gradually apart.

Danny rubs both their arms, like he’s bringing blood back to them. “You’re okay, honey,” he whispers— to Charlie, so he laughs a little when Steve reacts. Steve laughs too. “Yeah, you’re okay too, babe,” Danny adds, kissing Steve on the cheek. “Okay. Listen, I’m tired. And if I’m tired, then you both are exhausted.”

Steve hums in agreement.

“So you don’t gotta be ready. But if you are—”

“I am.”

“Okay. We all okay with going home, then?”

Charlie sniffles, raising his head for the first time in a while. “Uncle Steve’s coming too, right?”

“Uncle Steve’s coming too. How’s Uncle Steve holding up?”

“I’m okay,” Steve murmurs, which makes Danny laugh.

“Look at you,” Danny clucks, “you’re more messy than my seven year old. Look at me. Look here.”

Steve does, closing his eyes and sucking in a deep, steadying breath as Danny knuckles the tears from his cheeks.

“Okay. You’re okay, babe. You ready to go?”

Steve nods.

“You okay to carry the little man back to the car?”

Steve nods again. He’s okay to carry Charlie; honestly, he’s maybe not okay to put him down.

Danny drives home. Steve sits with Charlie in the backseat, holding his hand, both of them nodding off more than once along the way. Before long they’re at Danny’s house. And there’s barely any discussion before they all settle down for a late morning nap.

Shirt still not fitting right, Steve raids the laundry. There’s got to be at least one shirt of his somewhere in Danny’s house, but he doesn’t bother hunting; instead he swipes one of Danny’s oldest, most threadbare t-shirts and pulls it on. Comfortable now, he joins Charlie on the couch.  
  
They fall asleep beside one another, Steve against the arm with his feet on the coffee table, Charlie stretched out across the rest of the couch’s length. But when Steve wakes, Charlie’s in his lap, drooling on his borrowed T-shirt.

Grace is nowhere to be found, but Steve knows she hasn’t gone far. Danny’s tucked up in the armchair, gaze even and leveled in Steve’s direction.

“You know,” he says, finally, “in a way, I’m impressed?”

“Oh yeah?”

“Your dad died, and you did everything possible to pretend you weren’t hurting.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“All right. Fine. Not that you weren’t hurting—just that you didn’t—”

“I know,” Steve mumbles, hugging Charlie a little tighter. “So you’re saying, you’re impressed by the—the— _plyhh_?” He mimes a gushing from his eyes with one hand, to accompany the nonsense sound.

Danny smiles. “I mean, not when you put it that way.”

“Mm.”

“You okay?”

“Okay’s not really my benchmark anymore,” Steve admits. He forces his head up, catches Danny’s eyes. “I’m here, y’know? I’m functional.”

“Functional. High bar.”

“Some days it is,” Steve snaps, regretting it not for Danny’s sake but for Charlie’s, as the kid groans. But he resettles without waking.

“I know,” Danny replies, once Charlie’s fully asleep again. “When Matty died”— he shakes himself— “I know that, Steve.”

He does know. And Steve knows that he knows. So he goes quiet, cradling Charlie to his chest once again.

Danny clears his throat. “You still talk to your guy?”

Steve shakes his head, vaguely. “Never started up again after I came back.” He snorts. “Never actually told him I was gonna stop, either, so— it’d be kind of embarrassing to go back.”

“I think he’d understand that formally canceling your therapy session was the last thing on your mind.” Danny smiles. “You gonna— you gonna start again?”

“What good’s it gonna do, man? I know the techniques, I’m on the meds— it’s not like it’ll fix the fact that—”

His throat clogs, _again_ , and Steve falls silent. He ducks his head down and kisses his nephew’s hair; Charlie stirs, which wasn’t Steve’s intention, but he welcomes the interruption of his waking.

Danny sighs, and lets the subject drop.

Charlies moans as he rouses completely, and snuffles against Steve with a blast of unexpectedly wicked long-nap-breath.

“You okay, buddy?” Steve murmurs. This, apparently, doesn’t rate a reply.

“All right,” Danny mutters. The conversation doesn’t feel finished; then again it doesn’t feel like a conversation that even can be finished. Steve watches Danny shake himself, and rise. “I’m gonna make pancakes,” he announces, to nobody in particular. Then he heads off, presumably to the kitchen.

Steve glances at his watch; it’s nearly 1400. The realization makes his stomach growl.

“You hear that?” he asks, prodding Charlie gently. “I guess I’m hungry. My stomach’s being _loud_.”

Charlie says nothing.

“I wonder if Danno will put in chococlate chips, if we ask.”

Still nothing. Charlie snuggles back against Steve’s chest.

“Hey. You hungry, buddy?”

Charlie grumbles. “Tummy hurts.”

“Oh. Okay. Can I tell you a secret?” Steve whispers, and Charlie nods against his chest.

“Sometimes when I’m sad, my tummy hurts too,” Steve explains, gently. “But if I eat a little bit, most of the time it makes me feel better. You wanna try?”

“Okay,” Charlie mutters. It still sounds like he’s pouting, but at least he consented.

Steve threads one hand’s worth of fingers into his nephew’s hair. “Hey, listen, kiddo”—he has to stop, and breathe— “I’m sorry if it made you sad, to go with me this morning.”

“’sokay,” Charlie murmurs. Steve thinks he’s finished speaking, until he turns his head to the side and sighs out, “if we’d’ve didn’t, you would’ve been sad alone.”

“Yeah. I guess I would have.”

“So that’s a good reason. Because you didn’t have to be.”

Breathe catches in Steve’s throat; instead of fighting it, he just lets it leak out. “You’re right. It really helped, Charlie. But now—maybe I could help you?”

Charlie snuffles again. “How many ‘til pancakes?”

“Hm. A little bit. Maybe fifteen minutes?”

“Cuddles ‘til then,” Charlie replies, burying his face back in Steve’s chest.

And of course, this helps him as much as it helps Charlie, but Steve’s not about to complain.

**Author's Note:**

> <3 <3 <3


End file.
